


hand me downs

by thesecretdetectivecollection



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Dressing Room Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretdetectivecollection/pseuds/thesecretdetectivecollection
Summary: Jamie isn't a man who hates clothes. Clothes are a necessary part of the society he lives in, and he wears some and other people wear some and some people wear good clothes and some people wear bad clothes and he's been part of both groups before.So why does he care so damn much about the dark blue denim shirt Gary Neville's brought home from his trip to Paris with Becks and the lads?





	hand me downs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SixPonderous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixPonderous/gifts).



> For the prompt: Dolce and Gabbana faded denim shirt with the not buttons!

The shirt wasn’t _ugly_ , per se. It wasn’t. But maybe that was the point. The not-ugliness of it. It was a deep blue, navy, with a bit of strategic fading around the elbows and seams, and it was—god, Gary actually looked really _good_ in it.  
  
It just wasn’t Gary’s normal style. It wasn’t an old t-shirt, faded, but only because it was fifteen years old and had been through the wash a hundred times. It wasn’t plaid. It wasn’t a black leather jacket that he wore because he had to, when he rode his Ducati.  
  
Most grating of all, perhaps, was the Beckham-ness of it all. The first time Jamie had seen the shirt was in a picture Gary had posted on instagram, with him and a bunch of his Manc mates, all having a weekend in Paris, with David Beckham the star of the picture, sporting a stupid-looking beanie with an arm wrapped around Gary’s shoulders. That was Jamie’s problem with it, if he was being honest. It had David Beckham, Style IconTM, written all over it. And Jamie wasn’t imagining David with his arm wrapped around Gary, taking him to cute little boutiques—god, of course David Beckham, Style IconTM, would shop at fucking _Parisian_ _boutiques_ , of all places—or David holding Gary's hand as they walked along the Champs-Elysées, or David leaning across the table in the dimly-lit restaurant to press his mouth to Gary's...  
  
He wasn't imagining that at all.

And then there were the _buttons_. Jamie might not have had such a problem with The Shirt if it had had decent normal white buttons like every shirt ought to have.

  
But it didn’t! It had these little metal not-buttons—because buttons came with buttonholes— _not-buttons_ , which you had to awkwardly _push_ together until there was a little click and the shirt held. It was the sort of shirt that could come apart if Gary had a few too many Haribo and pizza and drinks, and laughed too loud.  
  
He could picture it clearly—he knows what Gary looks like, under his clothes, from the locker room days and the referee documentary. He could almost see it, Beckham pushing him against a wall, mouth hungry on his neck, one violent tug, and Gary—  
  
Gary, exposed under him, begging for more from his David, chiseled marble come to life and his flesh-colored canvas inked all over, from his Becks— _please, love, it’s been so long—_  
  
Jamie fucking hated the shirt. He never failed to call it Beckham’s hand-me-down, poked fun at it at every opportunity…  
  
  
  
Gary’s with him and Ed in the lounge, and they’re doing some sort of filming thing for Facebook, and because it’s the internet, it’s allowed to be more casual. They wear their street clothes, and Gary’s wearing The Shirt and god, he’s so gorgeous it’s like he’s walked straight off the set of a photoshoot. There’s candy, and Gary shares with Jamie like they always do, and they’re sat on sofas and comfy armchairs and not standing in a studio that looks like a sci-fi television set. Ed is there too, trying to not act like a presenter, because Gary’s meant to present this little segment—he comes off a little less polished than Ed, but he’s still more palatable (and comprehensible) than Jamie. And it helps that Gary’s good at presenting, like Gary’s good at everything.  
  
 _Gary looks like he’d be good with the shirt ripped open, pinned against the wall, too, writhing under Jamie’s mouth._  
  
He’s still thinking about that when—  
  
Gary’s asked him a question, and they’re streaming it live, so now people _know_ he’s been staring and didn’t hear…  
  
“You wearin’ your Dolce & Gabbana again, mate? What is that, Beckham’s hand-me-down?” Ed laughs obligingly and joins in on the banter, until Jamie asks what the original question had been, and Gary answers. It’s a pretty good recovery, actually, and they move on and finish the segment.  
  
After the show’s over, they’re getting back into street clothes, and Gary comes up to Jamie to ask about post-show drinks before they catch the next train home.  
  
“You really don’t like this shirt, do you?”  
  
“It’s fine, Gaz, I just don’t think a grown man should let someone else do his shopping for him, is all.”  
  
“I picked it myself, actually. Davey was there, but I’m the one who picked it. He said it looked good, but maybe he was just being nice to an old friend.”  
  
Jamie freezes, caught on the nickname. David Beckham. Davey? The man was an icon. Hearing him being called Davey… it just reinforced how much time they’d had together. How much they loved each other.  
  
But if he doesn’t tell the truth about the damned shirt, the guilt will eat him up all night, and it doesn’t take much to stoke the insomnia these days.  
  
“You do look good.” Fucking  _Idiot_. The _shirt_ looked good. That’s what he should’ve said. Not that _Gary_ looked good. Even if he did. “In that shirt, I mean.”  
  
And all the time.  
  
Gary brightens up, beaming at him. “Yeah? Good, I’m glad you like it.”  
  
Something about that sentence pricks at Jamie’s ears.  
  
Ed calls out that he’ll see them later, and suddenly they’re alone in the room.  
  
“You’re glad _I_ like it,” Jamie repeats slowly.  
  
Gary’s blushing, realizing what he’s said.  
  
“Yeah. I’m glad you like it, James. I wanted _you_ to like it. I bought it hoping you’d like how I looked in it.”  
  
Jamie is a stubborn son of a bitch. He always has been.  
  
And as such, he’s never pulled a complete 180 in four seconds flat before.  
  
Because this shirt? This fucking shirt is proof that God exists, and that Jamie’s clearly one of his favorites.  
  
“I’d like it better on the floor.”  
  
“You mean your bedroom floor?” Gary chuckles nervously, but he looks so damn hopeful that Jamie’s heart aches in his chest for a second.  
  
“That’s not what I said,” Jamie says lowly, taking a step forward. His eyes flick down to Gary’s mouth, and back to his eyes, gorgeous brown irises almost swallowed up by his dilated pupils.  
  
“I need you,” Gary whispers.  
  
Jamie kisses him. He can’t help it, not when Gary has _that mouth_ on him, not when he’s looking so sincere and vulnerable and desperate. Not when he’s wearing _that fucking shirt_.  
  
Gary lets out a quiet breathy noise that sounds something like Jamie’s name and leans up into Jamie’s mouth. It’s electric, it’s a shock to Jamie’s entire system, and yet it’s still so—normal. Like he was put on Earth to kiss Gary Neville in the MNF dressing room. Jamie pulls away, and they look at each other for a moment.  
  
“Here or at home?” Jamie asks simply, one hand resting possessively on Gary’s waist.  
  
“H-home is hours away. And _I need you_ , James.”  
  
Jamie doesn’t say anything, just goes to the door and locks it, pressing Gary against a wall and kissing him again. Gary wraps his arms around him and hooks a leg around his hips, pulling him impossibly closer.  
  
“Can you take me here? Against the wall?”  
  
“I—yes, love, of course I can, do you have—“  
  
Gary reaches into his pocket and takes out a packet of lube and a condom. “Thought I should be prepared in case you wanted me back.”  
  
Jamie lets out a growl at the gesture, at the thought that Gary had thought about it this morning when getting dressed, had thought about it when they were filming, had thought about it during the show—  
  
Jamie smirks, pressing his mouth to Gary’s neck and relishing the quiet gasps and whispers asking for more.  
  
“My favorite thing about this shirt is this—“ Jamie steps back and gets his hand on the shirt, giving it a quick, hard tug, so all the buttons come apart at once and Gary’s standing in front of him bare chested, with the world’s best shirt hanging off his shoulders, and he looks indescribably sexy.  
  
Jamie attacks his mouth again, hands fumbling at Gary’s belt, trying to pull his jeans down—  
  
(Jamie’d remarked on it when he’d first seen him. “Denim on denim? Really taking some fashion risks today, Neville. They’re not paying off, mate.”)  
  
They manage it, eventually, after an awkward interlude wherein Gary takes off his shoes because his jeans are too fitted to take off otherwise. He needs them _off_ , so he can wrap his legs around Jamie’s hips. Jamie notices with some distant part of himself that Gary’s still got his socks on, and _holy shit_ , Jamie’s about to fuck a man who’s wearing nothing but his socks and his shirt, hanging open, and it has no right to be as hot as it is—  
  
Jamie gets his jeans down his thighs, too, and he’s ready to go, but Gary insists he take his shirt off, won’t let him so much as open the lube while he’s still wearing the plain grey shirt, for whatever reason.  
  
“Babe, I don’t get why—“ Jamie grumbles as Gary’s hands yank his shirt over his head. His body is… it’s just a body, he’s never seen the sex appeal, though there have been enough other people who’ve wanted him that he knows there must be _something_ they like.  
  
He does get why when Gary presses his mouth to Jamie’s shoulder and rips the packet of lube open with his teeth—at this rate, there’s a ridiculously high chance that Jamie’s just going to come before he even gets inside him, and that’s going to be hugely embarrassing and completely ruin his chances of getting Gary into his bed at home.  
  
Gary looks at him and wraps a leg around him again, and Jamie holds it under the knee while he opens himself up, maintaining eye contact and biting his lower lip. Jamie’s biased, but he doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard before. Ever.  
  
Gary hands him a condom first, and he rolls it on, and then he gets the lube packet, slicks himself up, and tosses the empty packet aside. Gary lifts his other leg too, ankles locking behind Jamie’s back, and suddenly Jamie’s the only thing holding him up. Jamie presses his mouth to Gary’s for a messy open-mouthed kiss to swallow the filthy sounds Gary makes as he pushes in. He’s impossibly tight. There had been no time for foreplay, not tonight. They’d rushed to get to the good part.  
  
Gary’s holding him tight, and his eyes are squeezed shut, head back against the wall and throat appealingly bared. Jamie leans in and kisses it as he slides in further, bottoming out with a quiet grunt.  
  
“Sl—slow, at first. Need to get used to you—“  
  
Jamie nods and stays still for a moment, until Gary opens his eyes and gives him a look that just begs him to _move_.  
  
He pulls out slowly and pushes in more slowly still, for the first few thrusts, until Gary’s arching his back and pushing his hips out to meet Jamie as much as he can.  
  
“Need faster,” Gary says between moans he muffles against Jamie’s neck, and Jamie is so pleased that this is entirely his doing, that _he’s_ the one who’s reduced him to this.  
  
He obliges his—they’d never discussed what they were, but _friend_ felt woefully inadequate for someone he was currently fucking against the wall at work, his Gary would have to do for now, and moves his hips faster, adjusting his hold on Gary’s strong thighs to get a better grip, and Gary gets noticeably louder, and his hands sink to grab Jamie’s ass, guiding him with little closed-mouth whines and choked-off moans.  
  
“Right there,” he whispers, “perfect, I’m going to—I’ve wanted you so long, Carra. So fucking long, and you’re so _good_ , your _cock_ , I need, I need _more_ , faster, babe, _please_ —“  
  
Soon Jamie’s properly fucking him, kissing him harshly to swallow his moans, because otherwise people will hear them—hell, people might already be hearing them—not that Jamie cares at the moment.  
  
He can’t kiss Gary and fuck him properly at the same time, so pulls away and Gary covers his mouth with a hand, trying to silence himself as he looks straight at Jamie.  
  
He pulls it away for just a second, enough for just a single word. “Please,” he whispers, covering his mouth again straight after.  
  
As far as commands go, it isn’t the clearest. But Jamie’s nearly coming anyway, so he takes hold of Gary’s cock and pumps it a few times, and the way he throws his head back and slaps his other hand over his mouth too, that’d been exactly what he’d wanted.  
  
Jamie makes a mental note—please with Gary Neville means _please touch me._  
  
He shoves in a little harder, biting at Gary where his neck meets his shoulder to muffle his own grunts.  
  
And then Gary’s coming, smeared on both their stomachs., and Jamie’s suddenly really, really grateful he’d taken his shirt off, because otherwise, they’d have a problem. He tightens around Jamie, too, and that sends him over the edge. “G-Gary,” he gasps as he spills into the condom, acutely aware that they have to be _quiet_.  
  
He pulls out slowly and Gary’s thighs are trembling around his hips as he puts one sock-clad foot on the ground, and then the other, a little unsteady. Jamie leans against him, catching his breath.  
  
“Get dressed, James.”  
  
Oh god, it’s over. That’s it. That’s all it’s going to be. A one-time hookup at work. How the hell is Jamie supposed to keep working with Gary after this? How is he supposed to watch him analyzing football without thinking about this, about how Gary looks when he’s under him, that look of _ecstasy_ on his face—Fuck. He takes a step back to get some distance between them.  
  
“I really don’t want to miss our train tonight, love,” Gary says lightly, “going all the way to Liverpool’s going to take long enough, don’t you think, without having to wait another few hours?”  
  
“We—we could get a hotel,” Jamie murmurs, heart fit to burst in his chest, “stay in London tonight. We could go now, even.”  
  
“I wanna be in your bed, Carra. Take me home.”  
  
Jamie can’t help it—he kisses him.  
  
“I love this shirt, you know,” Jamie mumbles against Gary’s mouth, “I’ve always loved it.”  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This was initially a prompt for a *three sentence* fic. So clearly that didn't work out. But I hope you like it, Gabs!


End file.
